


nine-and-a-half bowls of oatmeal

by philthestone



Series: through this, our hearts sustained [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, everythings Fine, honestly one day they're gonna get married and im gonna cry, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s gotta be a rule somewhere that says you can’t have two best men,” says Terry, looking  between Gina and Charles with a pained expression. </p><p>“Three best men,” Jake corrects, tapping his temple wisely.</p><p>“Two,” snaps Rosa. “I already helped you pick out the stupid ring. <em>Nothing else</em>.”</p><p>Jake and Amy get married. It’s a team effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nine-and-a-half bowls of oatmeal

**Author's Note:**

> hi! So quick disclaimer: several elements of this story are heavily inspired by _Five Things That Change Once They Start Dating (And One Thing That Doesn't)_ by _nubbins_for_all_ here on ao3. I've discussed this with them and they are cool with it, and lemme tell you, ya'll should _definitely_ check that fic out because it is truly the most heartwarming thing I've ever read and full of goofy professional police goofiness. #writinggoals tbh
> 
> anyway, also thanks to all the people who headcanonned with me prior to the writing of this monstrosity; I'm really proud of the end result. 
> 
> Reviews are delightful and lovely and truly appreciated!!! Enjoy, peeps.

(Because every story needs a prologue.)

“You want to bring back … The Bet?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus.

Captain Holt steeples his fingers over the pile of important looking forms on his desk and leans forward just a smidgen. He’s speaking slowly, as though he is unsure whether or not he should or should not be surprised – unsure whether or not he quite understands what they’re saying, or if he knew they were going to say it before they opened their mouths. Somehow he’s managed to convey the capitals in the words “the” and “bet” without so much as inflecting his voice, which Jake personally thinks is an impressive feat, especially considering that said capitals haven’t been used with regards to either of those words for several years now.

Well, maybe not _completely_ capital-less. It’s been used on occasion. Trips down memory lane are not infrequent, Jake can admit.

(Four years later, sometimes it still requires mentioning that he caught four guys all named John on the same day and _simultaneously_ kicked Santiago’s ass.

That sort of thing just doesn’t _happen_ on the daily basis, you know?)

Captain Holt inhales and presses his fingers together with a tad more pressure. Jake feels Amy fidget beside him and resists the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“And this it to decide … who … takes whose –” An eyebrow is raised. “Last name.”

“Brilliant solve, sir!” says Jake (and bounces once, just – just _because_ , and no, it’s not that he doesn’t have any control over his limbs, _shut up_ ), right as Amy says, “Well, I mean, it’s not – it’s not like we’re – we, we know it’s maybe not the most _orthodox_ of ways to do things, Captain, but –”

“I see,” says Captain Holt.

“Personally, sir,” says Jake, “I am all for just throwing caution to the wind and melding our names together –”

“No,” says Amy.

“'Santialta' has a wonderful ring to it, Captain, don’t you agree –”

“No,” says Amy, a second time, not looking at him. “Captain, I can understand if you think this is juvenile.”

“But what we’re really trying to say,” Jake says, “is that I am totally flexible and this is all Amy’s idea.”

“Jake! That’s _not_ true, sir, we were just –”

“ _Detectives_.” And – oh, boy, he’s leaned forward even more, and both eyebrows are raised now, and Jake thinks maybe he should’ve taken Gina’s advice and proposed the name “Peraltiago” instead because Captain Holt looks unconvinced and Captain Holt looking unconvinced about this is a real mood bummer, for some reason. “Let’s go over this again.”

“Of course, sir!” says Amy, her voice two decibels too high. Jake wonders if she, too, is seconds away from bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Based on the forms on my desk, the rings on your fingers, and the announcement that was made earlier this week, we can establish that you’re getting married.”

“Yep.”

“You cannot decide who is to take whose last name.”

“Correct, sir.”

“You … haven’t considered hyphenating?”

“That’s what we’ll do if we tie,” blurts Jake, because Amy doesn’t seem to want to clarify that particular point and Captain Holt is still looking at them skeptically.

“I see. So you want to bring back your earlier bet, which, I am assuming, will follow the same rules as before – that is to say, whoever makes the most arrests by the deadline gets to dictate the last name?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus.

“And,” says Captain Holt. “You’re here – asking my _permission?”_

“Um,” says Jake.

“Well,” says Amy.

Captain Holt looks at them. It’s been all of four days since they made the Official Announcement.

(Five days since Amy got down on one knee and won their _other_ bet, which was not The Bet, but rather just A Bet, and the _point_ is Jake refuses to take his crappy one-dollar plastic engagement ring off, which has earned him several funny looks from people in the checkout line at the convenience store and one beaming compliment from that perp he and Charles brought in the day before for public urination.

He’s not sure if he should count that as a win or not.)

Holt lets out a small exhale, and, quite suddenly, Jake can swear he’s holding back a smile.

“You have my blessing, detectives.”

“Thank – thank you, sir.”

(Jake doesn’t know if the word “blessing” is used on purpose or if it just, you know, meant that they were allowed to go ahead and do their _thing_ , but either way, Amy is beaming so brightly he thinks she might just shape-shift into an actual, like, _shooting star_ , or something – can people do that, Jake doesn’t know, Amy probably could, because she’d likely have read ten books about it and that would help with the whole process, thing, if turning into shooting stars was something that had a process and also she’s _Amy_ – and Jake feels a warm feeling blossom in his chest and even though it’s not like he’s stopped grinning for a second these past five days anyway, he feels his grin grow just a little bit wider.)

**

It starts like this:

Rosa Diaz, tough, no-nonsense Brooklyn detective, occasional reluctant fairy godmother from Hell, owner of axes and wearer of leather jackets, is enjoying her day off.

That is – she would be, hypothetically, in a perfect world, be enjoying her day off.

Instead, she’s glaring at her phone, which has just buzzed. Loudly.

There’s a single address on the screen, with the words, _pls come quiiick_ underneath. She texts back, _screw off, peralta, it’s my day off_ and tosses her phone onto the table, intent on taking a shower, ordering pizza, and maybe sticking her old VHS tape of _Atlantis_ into the player and kicking back on the couch, when her phone buzzes again.

_11:24 am: From: Jake Peralta_

_rosa im desperate_

_11:25 am: To: Jake Peralta_

_no_

_11:27 am: From: Jake Peralta_

_100 0 pushup s_  
  
Rosa grabs her coat.

**

However, it could also be stated that it starts like this:

Gina Linetti, professional dancer, experienced businesswoman-cum-personal-police-captain-assistant, and spiritual twin of the world-famous celebrity-slash-queen-slash-probably-qualified-to-be-president-of-the-world Beyoncé Knowles, is standing in a jewelry shop.

It’s a compromise between the Swarovski's five blocks over and the second-rate pawn shop down the street, and, at that particular moment in time, she’s inspecting a tray full of rings.

“Nope,” says Jake’s voice from behind her shoulder, where he’s standing on his tiptoes, hovering.

“Sir,” says the shop assistant, who has been looking more and more irritable as the past hour has gone by. “There are only so many engagement rings we _carry_ here. Maybe if you were more flexible in –”

“ _Definitely_ nope,” says Gina, wrinkling her nose at the flashiest ring on the tray; three diamonds set in the middle with an intricately weaved gold band bracing them. Personally, Gina thinks, she would unhesitatingly take five of those rings, and maybe the crystal earring and necklace set under the counter to their left, and also that one ruby pendant in the shape of a flamingo sitting on display at the checkout. But if there is one thing which Gina will unhesitatingly make very clear, it is that _she_ , Gina Linetti, is _nothing at all_ like Amy Santiago.

The problem is, it’s been an hour, and they haven’t made the slightest of inroads in Possible Rings. Jake’s getting antsy, the sales guy’s complexion has slowly been reddening, and Gina is kind of lowkey _really_ craving chocolate-chip-infused cran-raspberry muffins, which most _muffin_ shops don’t sell, let alone this jewelry store. Besides which, in the past hour, they’ve discussed everything from Jake’s erstwhile head of curly hair circa thirteen years of age (“I used to be able to hide my _pens_ in there!” crows Gina happily, watching as Jake leans against the glass case holding the sterling silver earrings and sticks his tongue out at her) to the state of the Kardashian-West’s marriage (“Their baby is hella cute,” says Gina, while Jake wipes the clamminess of his palms against his jeans and frowns at the price tags on the sales rack) to the Matter At Hand, which quickly devolves into a variation of reminiscing that makes Gina feel warm and queer all at once.

(“It’s official,” she says, anticipating the coming eye-roll with a finesse that’s come from experience, slinging an arm around Jake’s shoulders to ignore the swooping sensation in her stomach that’s been dancing around down there ever since he’d called her that morning and stuttered something out about ring shopping and marriage proposals and she’d nearly dropped the phone. “You’re a God damned a- _dult_.”

“I _know_ ,” says Jake, a horrified look crossing his face. “That’s so _weird_.”)

Anyway. At one point, Gina tries to rap Spice Girls lyrics; at another, Jake nearly gets a 14-karat ring stuck on his pinky.

The sales clerk’s eye twitches. It’s very likely that he has some kind of tick, Gina thinks. He should probably go see a doctor about that.

“Don’t you have, like, something smaller?” asks Jake from behind her.

Generally, “smaller” has been their go-to ever since the shop door swung closed behind them with a cheerful tinkle. It’s probably related at least partially to the reason behind their absence in the Swarovski's and also the fact that police work and excessively-karated diamonds don’t really tango together, _and_ , also, because Jake very clearly has a picture of a ring in his head that is decidedly _nothing_ like the triple-diamonded glittering gold thing sitting on the tray in front of Gina.

“And more delicate,” Gina agrees, “like maybe think, if the majestic elf lady from that weirdo hobbit movie which I _have not seen_ was a ring.”

Jake wrinkles his nose as the sales clerk gives her a blank look.

“Galadriel? C’mon, Goose, this ring is _not_ a Galadriel.”

“Ugh, _no_ ,” says Gina. “The _other_ chick.”

Jake’s face manages to scrunch up even further. “Arwen?”

“Hmmm, no.” Gina taps her chin with her nail. “I feel your face. Who was that other one?”

“There were only two elf ladies, Gina,” says Jake, clearly repressing his exasperation; he knows her, after all, even better than he knows Lord of the Rings. He sighs and crosses his arms. “And neither of them could be Amy rings. Arwen’s like all willowy and whatever and even though she gives that magic elf swag necklace to Aragorn – which, I’d totally be down for that if I _had_ any magic elf swag, because that is like the _coolest_ declaration of love, but I’ve already told Amy that –”

“Oh my God, you losers.”

“– But you’re the one who suggested a ring-sona,” continues Jake, doing jazz-hands in the air. “And Arwen’s ring-sona _isn’t_ it.”

“No,” says Gina, raising her voice and pointing her finger at the sales clerk, who startles, having been in the process of clamping his mouth back shut after having hesitatingly opened it to maybe possibly attempt to voice his opinion. “One of the chicks in that movie is your ring, Jake. Trust me.”

“There’s only two elf ladies in Lord of the Rings, Gina!”

The sales clerk says, “I’ll run to the back and see if I can find anything else,” in a strained voice.

Clearly, there is a creator up above that is batting in their corner, because somewhere between his disappearance (honestly, it’s very likely that he’s spending most of his time in the back of the shop looking for a discrete escape route, maybe out of a window or through the air vents, which Gina personally thinks is insulting) and the fancy jewellery tree in the corner overbalancing and toppling over onto Jake, the shop door tinkles again and Rosa walks in.

“Help,” squeaks Jake in a tiny voice from under the swinging semi-precious gem necklaces.

“Rosaaaaaa!” says Gina, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Jesus,” says Rosa, and walks over to disentangle Jake from the heinously expensive display before a menacingly large pink coral pendant swings around and smacks his nose.

“We’re looking for a ring,” Jake explains, rubbing at his nose (anyone else would say that Rosa wasn’t fast enough, but Gina knows that very probably she just let the damn thing knock into him for shits and giggles), right as Gina says, “What, Jake! You texted Rosa?” in an offended voice.

“It’s my day off,” says Rosa, glaring at him, but doesn’t make any move to leave. Maybe it's because Jake grimaces and looks at his scuffed-up, old, one-time-they-lit-on-fire-and-Rosa-had-to-dump-her-soda-on-them sneakers; maybe it's because they’re in a second-rate jewelry store and Jake’s even _more_ fidgety than usual and Rosa’s a pretty dope detective and can put two and two together when she sees the discarded trays of engagement rings spread out across the polished counter. Also maybe because the sales clerk walks back in with a distinctly annoyed look on his face and says, 

“This is the last set we have, sir –”

He stops when Rosa’s glare is turned on him.

Gina thinks that some of the _annoyed_ that vanishes from his slightly-pudgy, paled face has been replaced by _terrified_ , but she can never quite tell with these things. People-reading is an exact science, and Gina’s too preoccupied with finding Amy her perfect elf-inspired engagement ring to devote the required mental energy to such an arduous task.

“We’re struggling,” says Jake, and Gina watches the sales clerk keeps his eyes on Rosa and bite back what would have definitely been a condescending, _Indeed_.

“I still say the ring should look like that warrior princess girl,” says Gina as Rosa pushes past them to direct her glare to the tray of rings. (Her eyes soften.)

“Gina,” says Jake, “no more Lord of the Rings. You’re being not you and it’s weirding me out.”

“I’m trying to speak the language,” says Gina. 

“Wait," says Rosa, "you want the ring to look like Eowyn?”

There’s a beat of silence wherein the sales clerk visibly bites down on his tongue, Gina says “YES!” and Jake looks like Christmas has come early.

“Oh, my God,” says Jake. “G, you’re a _genius_.”

“Sir,” says the sales guy, “maybe if you took a look at these new rings –?”

“Shut up, sales guy,” says Gina. “You’re not giving us a discount, so we don’t have to be nice to you anyway.”

“Guys.” Rosa’s still looking at the tray. “What about this one?”

(It’s simple and silver and has a small white square-cut diamond in the middle, sturdy and practical but elegant at the same time, and there’s something about Jake’s voice when he says, “That one,” after staring at it for fifteen seconds straight that keeps Gina quiet, that softens Rosa’s tone when she tells the sales clerk to put it in a box. It affects the lightness of the air in the car, after Jake fumbles with his credit card and Rosa punches his shoulder before walking back to where she’s parked her motorcycle; as if everything has suddenly started buzzing with an energy that Gina’s never felt before but the buzzing’s muted and instead of putting them on edge they’re just _happy_.

Jake’s quiet the whole way back to the apartment, looking at the small blue box in his hands with a tiny, nervous smile on his face. Gina keeps her eyes on the road and pretends like the swelling feeling in her chest isn’t because of how immensely proud of him she is.)

**

Most importantly, it starts like this:

Amy Santiago, upstanding officer in the NYPD, diligent, hard-working citizen, and lover of newly-bought stationary – who, in her own words, has Never Done Anything To Deserve This – is woken up at three forty-two in the morning by her boyfriend’s finger insistently prodding her shoulder, accompanied by a repetitive, whispered, “ _Ames_.”

Amy thinks that she’s been working overtime every day for the past three days. Amy thinks that she was in the middle of a really nice dream that had nothing to do with grieving widows or small-time drug dealers and was full of colour-coded sticky notes and brand new highlighters that glided really nicely on the page. Amy thinks that it is _three forty-two in the morning_ , and that she is going to finally do good on her old contingency plan of ten years before and murder Jacob Peralta.

If romance was an emotion, Amy thinks that she is experiencing the feeling _farthest from_ any semblance of that.

She groans and kicks Jake in the knee.

“ _Wha’_.”

“Amy? Ames, are you awake?”

“Jake. It’s –” She grabs for the bedside table and feels her fingers scrabble at her phone, squinting at the sudden brightness of the screen – “three forty-two – no, no look, three forty- _three_ in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” says Jake’s voice, from over her shoulder, and maybe it’s some intuitive inner sense and maybe it’s Fate and maybe it’s just totally and completely by chance (because Amy can’t imagine that she actually _picks up on_ the nervous note in his voice in her half-zombie state) but something compels her to turn around and face him.

She turns to face him, and he just looks at her. For maybe fifteen seconds, he doesn’t say anything and just kind of holds his breath. Amy’s about to frown at him and bury her face in his shoulder and go back to sleep when Jake says, “Hi,” and she blinks again and realizes, suddenly, that his voice might be half and octave higher than usual and he’s gripping the comforter between them slightly more tightly than necessary.

“Jake?”

“Look,” he says, as she rubs at her eyes and tries to wake up, “look, I can’t sleep cause I’m – I’ve been – there’s this thing – ”

“Jake,” she tries, still rubbing at her face, “it’s three in the morning –”

“I know, I _know_ , Amy, and it’s – it’s kinda dumb? ‘Cause really, I should be like – I shouldn’t be – this is a big, like I should be thinking of this legit, you know, not at three in the morning –”

“Jake –”

_“Ikindareallywannamarryyou.”_

Amy blinks another three times to make sure she’s not dreaming and props herself up on her arms. “Y – what?”

“I mean,” says Jake, propping himself up on his elbows to match her, “I know – it’s not – like you can totally say no, I’m being – this was weird, okay, I’ll shut up in five seconds but I just really, really love you, for – for realz, you know, and I wanna spend my whole life, with you, but if you don’t want to – like, I get it –”

(She’s still half-processing the fact that he used the phrase _for realz_ – with a z, she assumes – and also the fact that it’s three in the morning and also the fact that he just _proposed_ , so the abrupt use of his last name that comes next can be forgiven. Amy thinks by this point that it’s just reflex to fall back onto their partnership, probably, which is nice, but – _focus, Santiago, your boyfriend just told you he wants to marry you_.)

“Peralta.”

“Yep.”

“Are you seriously proposing at three in the morning.”

Jake frowns. “Woah, no way. I’ve totally got a whole thing planned. It was gonna be, like, _so_ epic, and I got a, ring, and stuff, but. But, um. I couldn’t sleep, and, I just – had to tell you?”

“Shouldn’t this usually be a surprise?”

“Like the proposing thing?”

“I don’t know?”

Jake’s eyes widen and his eyebrows crease and he rubs the back of his neck. His hair is mussed from the pillow, curls sticking up in the front, and she can see his face fall.

“Crap,” he says after a second. “Crap, oh my God, _shit_ , did I – I just – like I thought of it and I needed to tell someone but you’re like the only person I wanted to tell and I’m so –”

And suddenly Amy can’t stop the grin from blossoming over her face, so wide she feels her cheeks ache, he muscles burn, her lips stretch more than she ever thought was humanly possible, because it’s three in the goddamn morning and Jake Peralta is looking at her with a stricken expression on his face and the only thing that is running through her head is, _Oh my God_.

(Also that she loves him, desperately, essentially, the kind of love that settles in your diaphragm area and fills you with warmth and makes you feel grounded and floating and content all at once – but she already knew that.)

“Oh my God,” says Amy.

“Um?” says Jake.

“Oh, my God. Oh my God. Oh, my God. _Oh my God._ ”

And then she kisses him, hard.

She feels his confused grin against her mouth, and when her hands move to press up against his chest, she can feel the flickering break-neck pace of his heartbeat through the thin material of his t-shirt.

“So,” she says against his smile, “you were gonna propose?”

“Ummhmm,” says Jake, muffled against her lips, and Amy grins even wider.

“Not if I propose _first_.”

His eyes shine with excitement in the dark room as he pulls away.

“Oh, Santiago, it is _on_.”

**

Jake’s knees ache and the bullpen floor is dirty, probably still covered in the last vestiges of Charles’s spilled mussel soup from that morning, and hugging for more than thirty seconds on the floor in a professional work environment is probably against a Rule somewhere in some Rulebook. He’s almost sure that at some point between when he started laughing in delightshockamazement - he’s really not sure what emotion he’s feeling, just now – well, _somewhere_ along the way, the laughter got choked up in his throat and he may be a _little_ emotional.

Whatever, though. That’s allowed, right? When you get – proposed to, or whatever?

People in movies, Jake thinks, usually cry when they get proposed to.

“You guys can get up off the floor, now,” comes Rosa’s voice from somewhere above them. “It’s getting weird.”

“ _Rosa_ ,” comes Charles’s scandalized and (unsurprisingly) tearful gasp. “You’re ruining the _tenderness_ of the moment!”

“For God’s sake, both of you, just shut up and let them _be engaged_ ,” says Terry.

“Oh, this is great,” says Gina, her voice laced with a warmth that, in another life, Jake would have thought to be uncharacteristic. “This whole vid’s going on Twitter. Y’all are gonna do wonders for my follower count.”

Amy giggles against his shoulder and he feels her pull away. She faces him, still grinning so hugely that he’s scared her face might split in half. As it is, he’s unsure whether or not _his_ face hasn’t split in half already, but it’s still functioning, sort of, so he’s probably good.

“I should probably give you the real ring now,” Jake tells her, making no move to get up off the floor.

“Probably,” says Amy.

“I can’t believe this thing fits on my finger,” says Jake.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Amy says, the last remaining bits and piece of her giggles escaping from her mouth, and Jake looks down at the glittering plastic engagement ring he’d let her stick on his ring finger.

“Amy Santiago,” he says in a scandalized voice. “I am _never_ taking this _off_.”

She’s still smiling when she kisses him, sweet and soft, right there on the floor with his arms still wrapped loosely around her back.

**

(The words, _AMY WINS_ are written in exact, immaculately-coloured-in block letters on the whiteboard.

There’s confetti and music blasting from the stereo and Scully singing and streamers and everything, right in the middle of the bullpen, and she gets down on one knee and pulls out a small heart-shaped velvet box with silver ring, fake plastic crystal sparkling dimly in the center, and looks Jake right in the eye.

“You have to say yes.”

Jake makes a face at her.

“You mean we _both_ blew money on these absurdly priced rocks?”

“No, dummy,” says Amy, still grinning hugely. “I only spent a dollar on this thing.”

And Amy thinks that she’s never seen Jake’s smile quite as brilliant as what is on his face at that moment, when he says, “Oh, my God, Santiago, I love you so much,” and drops down to his knees in front of her to hug her soso tightly, right there on the dirty tiled floor of the bullpen.

He wears his crappy one-dollar glittery plastic engagement ring everywhere he goes after that, matching her own thin, silver band with a single small diamond in the middle, the one Gina confided in her about when she revealed her proposal plans to the squad at the beginning of that week. Amy thinks that she’s never been happier.)

**

_AMY: 3, JAKE: 2_

“I can’t believe you guys are doing this again,” says Terry, sighing at the corner of the briefing room whiteboard.

“Sarge,” says Jake, voice grave and eyebrows drawn. “It’s the _only way_.”

“I’m winning,” says Amy. “Step up your game, Jake Santiago.”

His stuck-out tongue would be a lot more petulant were he not smiling hugely at her. The whiteboard tally begins again.

**

According to Terry, you can’t _really_ have more than one best man, but Jake came to the conclusion years ago that sometimes, Terry is just against everything Cool And Fun. Also – in this particular case – he’s just plain _wrong_.

(Except Jake would never say it _quite_ as emphatically to his face, especially not the Cool And Fun bit, but the general picture is painted.)

“I thought Charles was your best man?”

They’re taking a break from case-solving to sort-of-reluctantly plough through wedding logistics. Jake is perched on the edge of his desk fiddling with a Rubix cube and attempting to formulate a rap to remember all the possible venue addresses by; Amy is flicking through one of her extensive lists and sticking yellow and pink page markers on the corners, muttering to herself; Charles is proudly showing off his ideas for the flower arrangements; Hitchcock and Scully are … inspecting Scully’s tongue, Jake realizes, o- _kay_ ; and Rosa –

Rosa’s not in the room at all, but down in the evidence lock-up, digging for leads on a theft she’s been working on. So, _okay_ , they’re not all taking a break from case-solving to go through wedding logistics. But Jake’s sure that Rosa’s with them in spirit.

Also, Gina’s just said, “As your best man –” in an Important Gina Voice (no doubt about to change the whole colour scheme of Charles’s flowers), which is what causes Terry to look up from his mid-afternoon yoghurt snack and frown in the first place.

“Terry,” says Charles, raising his eyebrows. “You can have more than one best man.”

“Yeah,” says Jake, looking up from his Rubix cube, suddenly realizing that he hasn’t actually declared a best man yet and that both Charles and Gina just assumed that they were both it and he never really said anything to indicate otherwise and if he’s being honest with himself he is totally, one-hundred percent okay with this. “People do that all the time, Sarge.”

“No,” says Terry slowly. “No, Jake, they don’t.”

“Well,” says Gina, “ _this_ wedding’s got two best men. Unless Charles wants to abdicate.”

Jake looks to Amy for backup to the background sound effects of Charles making unidentifiable noises of disbelief and shaking his head. Amy looks up from her sticky notes on cue, like she can read Jake’s mind, and says, “Well, I think it’s a _great_ idea!” with so much sincere enthusiasm that Jake can’t help but let his goofiest smile make itself at home on his face as he turns back to Terry.

“There you go, Sarge. Santiago, like, _knows_ this stuff.”

“Two best men,” says Terry, shaking his head. There’s a bemused look on his face. “And one of them’s a woman. Y’all are really the definition of progressive.”

“Eh,” says Jake, “they’re practically family anyway.”

“Actually,” says Charles, “we may not be related by blood to _you_ , Jake, but we _are_ step-siblings –”

“ _Ew_ , Charles!” says Gina, groaning, “We agreed not to _talk_ about that!” right as Terry says, “Two best men,” again, still with that bemused look on his face.

“Wait,” says Jake. “Wait, crap, I forgot – three best men. Mans. Mans? Three best mans, because –”

“Two,” snaps Rosa’s voice as she walks back into the bullpen carrying a box full of files and a plastic bag with what looks suspiciously like a switchblade in it. “I already helped you pick out the stupid ring. _Nothing else_.”

(He’s known her longer than almost anyone in the room except for Gina, really. He knows that Beauty and the Beast is her favorite Disney movie, that before she passed, her _abuela_ was her best friend, that she can punch the teeth out of someone with one swing and that she rubs at the gold pendant around her neck when she’s trying to calm down because it was a gift from her mother when she turned thirteen and picturing her mom singing in her head always soothes her.

He knows that she broke the law and snuck into a bar, once, when he was undercover, covered in glitter and wearing a wig, just so that she could make sure he was still in one piece.

He knows that she’ll beat him up without hesitating and let him sob on her shoulder with equal readiness.)

He says, “Aaaaaw, _Diaz_ ,” and Rosa raises her eyebrows at him and lets the box fall to her desk with a menacing _thump._

“Right,” says Jake. “Two best men.”

(He thinks she smirks, but he can’t be sure. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause he loves her anyway, and also Amy’s ring is _magical_.)

On the other side of the room, Terry sighs and digs back into his yoghurt (banana flavoured), but behind him, Jake catches Amy smiling into her colour-coded list, her eyes warm. He looks back at Charles with that same, buoyant feeling he’s had in his chest all week.

“Alright, buddy, throw me the flower ideas. Gina, try not to be too harsh when you shoot him down.” He pauses, and then grins, his voice becoming sing-song. “Rosa, feel free to chime in.”

(Her smirk grows wider; when she leaves the precinct later that evening at the end of her shift, she punches his arm a little harder than usual.)

**

_AMY: 28, JAKE: 32_

“So, like, what,” says Gina, tapping her shellaqued nails on the side of her phone case. “Is this one guaranteed to end in sex too?”

“I don’t know, Amy Peralta,” says Jake, leaning back in his chair. “What say y –”

She throws her pencil at him.

(And makes it up to him later that evening.

Damn Gina.)

**

“So then of course there’s also your Mom’s hairdresser and her cat – is the cat coming? Is this a pets-allowed wedding?”

Jake looks up from Amy’s left pinky toe, the polish brush hovering over it, dangerously close to dripping coral paint on the threadbare couch. There’s a recurring note of anxiety in her voice that’s been fluctuating up and down for the past hour – certainly less prevalent than it was when he first got home to find her with their portable whiteboard that Jake maybe-might-have once upon a time borrowed from the precinct set up on the couch, feverishly scribbling down names. She’s sure the look in her eyes was probably unfocused and distracted, and even though she’s been trying to get the twisting feeling in her chest in control for the greater part of the afternoon, it had suddenly hit her with a vengeance, sometime after lunch, that they were _planning a wedding_ and she had a _ridiculous_ number of relatives and half of Jake’s old neighbors would probably have to be invited and they’d have to categorize everyone and send invitations and there was just _so much of it to do_ and _what if someone got offended because they weren’t invited –_

Jake had taken one look at her when he opened the door, dropped his bag, and made her sit down on the couch. It took him three minutes to kick off his shoes, grab the nail polish bag from her side of the bathroom sink, and set the water to boil for tea.

He’s painted her nails before, so many times, even prior to their relationship being anything close to A Relationship. It helps Jake concentrate, helps him focus his thoughts and realign his brain when he feels like he’s drifting, when everything gets too loud – gives him something to do with his hands that’s gentle and repetitive and productive. It helps Amy get her breathing under control, helps her direct her energy to feeling the soothing brush of the polish against her toes and focus on that instead of the million things racing non-stop through her head, overwhelming her.

Also, he’s _really_ good at it – definitely better than Amy herself, who can’t stop the paint from smearing over her cuticles no matter how much she concentrates – and it is, she guesses, all Gina’s doing. 

The one time Amy asked him about it, though, he only shrugged and said something vague about growing up surrounded by women, and she’d decided to let it rest at that.

(It hadn’t been the best of times to press, anyway; two days after finally solving a redball, a kidnapping case that left Amy feeling sick to her stomach and with her fingers cold because the kid had been found dead, and now they were going to testify in court. Two days after solving the case and just over one year into their partnership and Jake had found her sitting on the floor outside the woman’s bathroom with her makeup wiped off because she’d lost it, broke down and cried with her knees drawn up to her chest in the farthest stall to the right. Her hands were shaking too badly to reapply her eyeliner so he knelt down in front of her and did it for her and squeezed her hand before she had to step up to the stand.

The first time he painted her nails was a little while after that, sitting on her apartment floor and going through case files he’d snuck out of the precinct so that she could solve a homicide that had been driving her up the wall.)

(She thinks he’s maybe done it for Rosa once, before. She _knows_ he’s done it for Gina. His fingers are always so steady when he does it; it helps Amy relax.)

“Um,” says Jake now, tilting his head. “Do we like pets?”

“No dogs,” says Amy. “But. Yes?”

Jake nods and goes back to the toe, biting down on his lip as he concentrates. Amy puts a checkmark down beside _hairdresser_ and continues down the list. Already, she feels less like there’s a giant wall of _wedding planning_ rising like a tidal wave in front of her, and she wiggles the toes on her other foot, already covered in coral paint. Jake looks up at her and quirks a grin; she smiles back.

They’ve already been through her seven brothers and their families (“this is _definitely_ a kid-friendly wedding,” Amy had promised the Sarge earlier that week, Jake pretended to look offended when Terry raised eyebrows in his general direction), Jake’s aunt from California, and the nice Chinese lady who sells flowers at the street corner by their apartment and always gives Jake a discount when it’s his and Amy’s anniversary.

“I’m sorry my family’s so huge,” she says, because they’re going to have to rent a bigger venue just for that.

Jake tugs at her pinky toe and pulls a face. “I’m sorry my Mom’s inviting half the Jewish population of Brooklyn.”

She laughs; “And we’re probably both sorry that we’re inviting the whole police precinct?”

“Nah,” says Jake, and goes back to her nails with the lip caught between his teeth, still grinning. Amy smiles into her tea and looks back at her list.

**

_AMY: 68, JAKE: 68_

“Okay,” says Amy, “but, really, let’s think about this logically.”

“Sure,” says Jake.

“Logically, we should be hyphenating.”

“Sure,” says Jake.

“ _Logically_ , we should’ve just done that from the beginning –”

“Unsure,” says Jake. “But go on.”

“ _Logically_ –”

“I still say we should go with Santialta.”

Amy looks at him. “Maybe we should just keep our names the same.”

“What?” Jake frowns, turns from his position staring at the whiteboard with his hands on his hips. “Why?”

Amy shrugs. “You hate paperwork.”

(Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.)

“You _love_ paperwork,” he counters, lifting his nose.

“We can swap our names all the time just to mess with people for kicks?”

Jake considers this. “Do I get to introduce you to people as my partner both in the field _and_ in life?”

Amy looks at him like he’s missing a screw. Or a marble. Or a knife. How does that expression go again?

“Duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I love you and done,” Jake says, and feels his heart do a funny little tango when she smiles at him, her cheeks dimpling.

(They tell Captain Holt about the outcome of the bet later that afternoon – and, still, this bet doesn’t seem magnanimous enough to warrant capitalization of the T and B – sitting on the office chairs in front of his desk and grinning at the way he closes his eyes, briefly, at their declaration.

“I see,” he says.)

(They ask him to officiate the wedding two days later and he says yes with zero hesitation.)

**

Their engagement party is a complete surprise.

Well, Jake _claims_ that he saw it coming, because he’s the world brightest detective, blah-blah-blah, but really: it’s a complete surprise.

It’s held in Terry and Sharon’s backyard, the convenience of the mild summer evening seized and the big plastic tables dragged to the back porch and piled with potluck food and drinks. Five of Amy’s brothers are there; Jake’s mother is there; half the police precinct is there, cheering “surprise!” and congratulating them, full of smiles.

It’s a lot of people, and it’s _their_ people, and the backyard is packed and at one point someone sets up karaoke on the porch and somehow Jake and Amy’s Dad get into a singing competition, and there are at least six young children partaking in a rousing game of superhero-themed water-gun-capture-the-flag tag.

About an hour in, Sharon throws her hands up in the air in resignation and lets Captain Holt bring her a fruity cocktail on the porch. At least, Amy thinks, she knows when to pick her battles.

Amy loves it. She’s just a little tipsy, enough that she’s not _quite_ spacey yet, but mellow – at ease, reclining against the kitchen counter when she comes inside to grab a glass of water. The last she’d seen of her fiancé, he’d been giving her niece Becky a piggyback ride in the yard, the shoulder of his t-shirt already decorated with grass stains, and she’d figured they could be left alone for five seconds without anything _too_ disastrous happening.

She spots Terry when he comes down from the upstairs bedroom, fresh from putting two-year-old Ava to bed, and when she smiles at him, he tosses her a grin before ducking into the fridge, looking for something.

“This is really nice, Terry,” she tells him, her fingers curling around her glass. The water from the condensation around it trickles down her hand. “You and Sharon put a lot of thought into this.”

Terry emerges from the fridge armed with a fresh beer and smile, and shakes his head at her.

“Oh, don’t thank us yet. Charles and Gina did most of the planning. And it was the Captain’s idea to begin with.” He grins at what she assumes must be the surprised look on her face. “Y’all got a lotta people who care, Amy,” says Terry, mirroring her posture against the sink. “Don’t you ever forget that, hmm?”

She reaches up a wet hand to tug at the slipping strap of her pink tank top. “I guess I have to promise, huh?”

“Well,” he says, shifting his shoulders against the hard edge of the counter. “Of the two of you, I figure you’re more likely to remember.” He pauses, eyebrows creasing slightly. “I said once I love Jake like one of my own kids, and every last word is true, but sometimes …”

“He doesn’t seem to get it.” Amy smiles, small and into her glass. “He’s gotten a lot better though.”

“Yeah,” says Terry, his expression softening through his grin. She gets the feeling he’s thinking about something she’s not privy to, like he’s looking beyond her dressy pink shirt and flushed cheeks and happy smile. Like he’s remembering something. Terry Jeffords has spent the past ten years dealing with them, Amy knows, both professionally and personally, and she can’t help but feel like Terry saw this – and “this” could be quite a number of things – coming from miles away.

“Yeah, he has.” Terry taps the side of his beer. “Same goes for you, though.”

“Me what?”

“I love you too. Gotta treat all my dumb work babies equally, right?”

“Aw, _Sarge_ ,” says Amy, her grin turning lopsided, and he winks at her.

“You keep your promise, Santiago,” he says, a strain of what Amy identifies as mock-threatening slipping into his tone, and she straitens up against the kitchen counter out of habit.

“I’ll put a sticky note on my fridge, sir,” she vows.

(And the thing is, she’s not entirely sure she _won’t_. But maybe it’ll go on the bathroom mirror, instead.)

He gets distracted by the sound of the speakers booming outside, so loudly that the floor under them shakes, and Amy has to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle that escapes at Charles’s yell and what is inevitably one of Amy’s brothers – either Danny or Ed, she’s sure – excitable whoop sounding in the air.

“Thank you again,” Amy tells Terry sincerely, even as the opening notes of Taylor Swift start playing from the backyard. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

Terry’s pained expression seems appropriate; Jake is now belting out the lyrics to _Belong With Me_ , his voice harmonizing with that of Amy’s brother Luis. It’s shockingly in-tune.

But then Terry smiles: “Anytime, Amy.”

**

Somehow, in the end, it is both as complicated as everyone anticipated and the easiest thing in the world.

They sit on the front steps of the building together, early in the morning. It’s nice, Jake thinks, that the sky is clear like this – that it just stretches out blue and soft across the tops of the New York skyscrapers, little wisps of white cloud streaking the canvas in bits and pieces. It’s nine twenty-three am, he’s still in his t-shirt and jeans, and he’s taking a moment to breathe.

“You know,” says Gina, “I still can’t believe you bailed on our sacred pact last second. This one’s short-notice even for you, JP.”

“I know,” says Jake, leaning back on his elbows and grinning at her. “What’d we say? Thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven, cheater. Your birthday’s in a month.”

Jake leans his head back, looks up at the sky, and catches Gina do the same out of the corner of his eye. It’s almost like they’re back on the roof of their old apartment building, leaning back against the stained brick wall and daring each other to spit over the edge. If Jake concentrates hard enough, he can almost smell the strong tang of Gina’s nail polish remover again.

“I still say that one was _your_ idea.”

“Puh- _lease_ ,” says Gina. “Marry each other and then cheat with celebrities because banging your sister from another mister was – and I quote – _icky?_ Jacob, you underestimate yourself.”

“There was definitely something about a jaguar in that pact, and I remain convinced that that was you.”

“There was a Spice Girls addendum too,” she counters. “One hundred percent your doing.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“You were the one who’d just gotten dumped, G.”

“Precisely my point, my little dumbass in shining armour.”

“Hey, now. I was _fourteen_.”

Gina cracks a grin at him; by this point, they’re both leaning far back enough on the steps that they’re practically lying down, two fully grown adults on the morning of a wedding spread-eagling themselves on the concrete steps of an official state convention center. Jake can’t help himself: he starts laughing, and the hard edge of the concrete steps dig painfully into his shoulders.

“You know,” says Gina up at the sky, “I didn’t think whatever creator is up there was thinking straight when they gave me an annoying little brother I never asked for.”

“Six months,” says Jake. “I am six months younger than you.”

“Still counts.”

He props himself up on his elbows to make a face at her and misplaces his hand against the concrete – his fingers slip, and the bare skin of his elbow smashes into the cutting concrete edge of the step. He yelps.

“Bad karma, hon,” says Gina, right on cue. Her smirk is warm and the bluegreen of her eyes are twinkling, the same eyes that looked at him teary and bloodshot as they sat on the kitchen floor what seems like a million years before but only yesterday all at the same time. And suddenly, Jake feels off-kilter.

“What?” says Gina, immediately, evidence that she has known him for _far_ too long. “You’re making a face.”

“No I’m not.”

“Jake.”

“I – _ow_.” (His elbow is stinging.) “I just – it’s – God, everything just seems – like? Such a long time ago?”

And it _is_ – so many ups and downs since the moment they sat under the kitchen table in Nana’s apartment passing back and forth a tub of bubblegum ice cream, Gina wiping angrily at her blotchy, tear-stained cheeks, promising each other that if neither of them was married by thirty-seven they’d marry each other.

There’s the sound of a car pulling into the parking lot, of doors slamming, and Gina raises her eyebrows at him.

“You ready?” (More of a statement than a question; she _knows_ , off-kilter or not, that he wouldn’t be sitting here on these steps if he wasn’t.)

Jake blows out a breath. “Never been readier in my life.”

“Excellent,” she says. “Cause if you got cold feet on her, I’d kick your butt. Also, Rosa would disable you. Charles would probably cry, but he’s useless always, so.”

Jake rolls his eyes and pushes himself up off the ground, stretching and brushing off the butt of his jeans.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, G.”

“For the record,” she says, “I forgive you for bailing on me.”

Jake smiles at her, tugs down the hem of his t-shirt, and skips down the steps to help Terry carry in the extra foldable chairs from his minivan.

**

(The complicated/easy gradient seems to be in constant flux, though. _Typical_.)

“Um, hey. The fire’s out.”

Rosa has a rule about hugs, and that rule is that they can’t be longer than half a Mississippi. She’s broken that rule four times in her adult life; twice, it has been for Amy Santiago.

She’s just finished putting out a couch fire in the middle of a public place, a state convention center with high ceilings and tidy hallways and just enough zest in its order to fit both Jake and Amy perfectly. She can see bits of the extinguisher fluid smattering the hem of her blue dress and scowls, knowing she’ll have to change.

Rosa walks back into the back room where Amy’s mother, four of her sister-in-laws, Kylie, and, surprisingly, Gina, are trying to get her to calm down; couch fires are, definitely and unwaveringly, totally normal things that happen to totally normal people and usually don’t effect the success of weddings, one way or another. To be frank, Rosa thinks that of all the things Amy could be freaking out about today, flaming couches are something she can respect, but at present, she’s hoping that Amy isn’t freaking out at all. If Amy’s freaking out, that means Jake is inevitably freaking out as well, and even though she’s sure they can both Handle It, she doesn’t like the niggling feeling in the back of her mind, like she needs to comfort them and tell them they’re being stupid.

She stands awkwardly in the doorway holding the fire extinguisher for a moment before clearing her throat and making her announcement.

Amy, with her hair swept over her shoulder and her dress and makeup on, takes a deep breath and looks across the room at her.

Rosa purses her lips. Charles is somewhere in the kitchen doing important Best Man Things and Terry is double-checking the flowers with the help of a couple of Amy’s brothers and she’s sure she saw Amy’s Dad trying to teach elementary Spanish to the Jeffords twins, and Jake is still, _miraculously_ , alive – and she thinks she saw Holt in the hallway muttering something about bowties and oatmeal. So, all things considered, it could be worst; they still have two hours to go, and any loose ends can be tied up in that time, right?

Rosa tells Amy this.

(She doesn’t tell her that she might have seen Algernon the mouse scurrying up the aisle when she went to check on Terry; they’d all thought Algernon had died three years ago. No use bringing up the grief on what’s supposed to be a happy day.)

Amy blows out a breath and swallows and nods, and Rosa thinks that it’s a good thing there are so many people here who _care_ , wonders if Gina’s been rubbing her back gently like that the whole morning or if that just became a thing post-couch-flames. Rosa thinks that actually, Amy looks a lot calmer than she expected, given the circumstances. 

But there’s a split second, a moment where they can hear from the other side of the door the hallway begin to fill with people, wedding guests' voices happy and loud and chattering excitedly, and she watches the Amy scrunch her eyebrows slightly, like she’s just suddenly remembered a million other things to worry about. Rosa thinks that she _knows_ that look.

Rosa _does_ know that look; it’s a Signature Santiago. She can see the telltale signs of her stiffening shoulders under Kylie’s hands, the way she moves away from Gina’s soothing back-rubs.

So when Rosa says, “Hey, can I talk to you?” more of a demand than a request, she’s not surprised when Gina gives a final back-pat and pushes Amy forward. Pilar Santiago, ever in control, nods firmly and starts shooing the sister-in-laws out of the room, and Kylie, fulfilling the role of Maid of Honour with more ease and grace than should be humanly possible, sweeps out of the room and says something about checking in on the seating arrangements.

Amy’s – well, _God_ , Santiago looks amazing, Rosa can admit: her hair dark and smooth and curling and her dress long and soft and very _Amy_ , light and simple and shimmering like someone spliced an angel and mermaid together. But Rosa’s not a sentimental idiot with her head in the clouds, so she doesn’t say that out loud.

The fabric of the bodice catches the light and glimmers with soft blueish undertones when she moves forward and gives Rosa a nervous cross between a grimace and grin.

“Um,” says Amy, and Rosa says, “The fire’s out,” and they look at each other for a moment.

Suddenly, absurdly, Rosa feels the laugh bubble up in her throat. Before she can think twice about it she says,

“Oh my God, Santiago, you’re marrying your idiot best friend,” and somehow Amy’s nodding and managing the words,

“I _know!”_

It comes out caught in the middle of her own nervous giggles, pushing past the resurgence of anxiety that undoubtedly came along mostly from burning upholstery but also maybe a little from nerves – like she can’t quite believe it herself. And then Rosa’s moving forward and hugging her, tight and rough, strong arms circling around Amy’s softer shoulders. They stand there for a couple minutes not moving, until Rosa gives her a final squeeze and pulls away.

Amy’s eyes are misty; Rosa scowls.

“Don’t cry, dumbass, your makeup’ll get ruined.”

She laughs. “Thanks, Rosa.”

“Hey.” Rosa swallows, shrugging. Not quite as uncomfortable as she might have been three years ago, but, still. “I’ve got your back, Santiago.”

(The, _I love you_ is unspoken; they have known each other nearly ten years, after all. Have seen each other’s best and worst. Rosa has the keys to Amy and Jake’s apartment, has calmed Amy down from panic attacks, has let Amy see her cry over Disney movies with only mild follow-up threatening. This is the second time Rosa’s broken her hug rule, held the younger woman tightly for an indeterminable number of beats and let her rest her cheek on Rosa’s shoulder.

The, _I love you_ is unspoken, but true, all the same.)

Amy smiles at her, warm and full.

"I know you do."

**

(And, well. “Easiest thing in the world” is an interpretive phrase.)

“Is the continuous pacing … an indication of discomfort?”

Jake whirls around and almost loses his balance, his hands grabbing at thin air to steady himself. He takes in Captain Holt’s raised eyebrows and impulsively tugs down at his suit jacket.

“Nope. No! Fine, everything’s freat – I mean, _great_ , fine, everything’s fine and great!”

He stands there looking at Holt for a moment like the (presumable) idiot that he is before bouncing on his feet impulsively and then turning and resuming his nervous pacing.

Holt walks forward and positions himself in front of Jake, effectively halting his steps, and Jake’s ready to repeat the “everything’s freat” line when the Captain puts his hands on Jake’s arms and stills him, focusing his attention on Jake’s bowtie.

“Stand still, detective,” he says. “You can’t be entertaining the thought of going out there with the knot done from the back instead of over the top.”

“Um,” says Jake.

It takes a moment for the tie to be tied, a moment for Jake to take a deep breath and quell the need to start pacing again. Holt finishes, straightens the bowtie, and brushes down Jake’s shoulders with efficiency.

“There,” he says. "An immaculate butterfly knot.”

“Great,” says Jake. “Thanks, that’s – perfect, good, great.” He turns to the mirror and tries smiling at himself. He has to say this – the tie _does_ looks better than it did before, and Jake thinks that he should’ve probably listened to Charles’s original advice and let him tie it for him.

He manages to stand still in front of the mirror for all of fifteen seconds before starting to fidget.

“Jake,” says Captain Holt in a measured voice. “I would suggest that you do something about the distressed look on your face _before_ you go to greet your wedding guests.”

“Right,” says Jake, fingers jumping up to brush at his hair. There’s a stray curl that’s sticky up the wrong way under his _yarmulke_ and it’s infuriating him. Or putting him on edge, at any rate; uncooperative hair is just one straw on the general weight sitting on his back.

Jake wonders whether, if he really _were_ a camel, he would still be freaking out like this. As it is, his conversation with Gina five hours previous seems to have been in another life, and he feels the anxiety buzz in his stomach.

“Jake,” says Captain Holt again.

“He’s not coming,” Jake blurts. “Like he texted me and – I’d? It’d been stupid to think that – I dunno why I even _invited_ my dad in the first place cause Amy didn’t really want to but she said sure and –”

He feels his breath come out in one big whoosh, half caught on a strained laugh, and impulsively his hand jumps up to run through his hair, his fingers catching at the edge of his cap and knocking it lopsided.

So much for flattening down that curl.

“I see,” says Captain Holt.

“It’s – no big deal, really?” Jake continues, the words somehow coming out a question. He turns around and faces the mirror again, placing his hands on his hips to stop them from mussing up his hair even more. “I’m fine. That’s not even what’s – what’s bothering me, or, or whatever. I mean _nothing’s_ bothering me, I – I just –”

His words peter out. There’s a moment of silence, stretching out in the small back room Jake chose to get changed in and pressing against the white-painted walls, filling up the space. His t-shirt and jeans are slung over the chair on the other side, and his sneakers are in two different spots on the carpeted floor, and Charles’s magical duffel bag of Stuff (which Gina claims to be _hers_ , and Jake guesses from the leopard print on the outside that it probably is) is unzipped in front of the mirror. If he squints, he can just make out the three different “just in case” colognes that Charles stowed in there, along with the two extra pairs of socks, the (unused) hairbrush, and the bag of obscure Danish pastries – “On paper, they’re for keeping you blood sugar up, because I _know_ you didn’t have a nutritious breakfast,” Charles tells him, leaning in conspiratorially – “But really, I put them in there because they are sustenance in its most _divine_ form, Jake. _Divine_.”

Charles has been taking his role as Co-Best Man very seriously.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” says Holt finally, and Jake starts, turns to look at him. “This is a big step,” Holt clarifies. “If you had no misgivings whatsoever, I would think you a fool.”

“I – I’m just –” The idea seems to be slamming into him all at once, and he hates to think that after all this time, it’s because of his dad’s text, but – well. _Jake Peralta is uncomfortable with emotions. Jake Peralta is an immature manchild. Jake Peralta has abandonment issues. Jake Peralta’s finances are a disaster._ He takes a deep breath: “I just really don’t want to screw this up.”

It comes out in a whisper; he thinks that maybe his voice is pretending that if it whispers things, they won’t be quite as real.

“And there is nothing to indicate that you will,” says Captain Holt immediately. His voice is almost gentle. He steps forward, closer than before, but pauses, eyebrows raising, when Jake scoffs.

“That’s not – I’m _not_ – it’s just, I’m not, like, _you_ , or, or Terry, or – I’ve never done this before? It’s not – Captain, you _know_ me, I’m a mess, and I screw things up all the time, and –”

“Jake.”

“And it’s dumb, super dumb, ‘cause the only person I really wanna talk about this with is Santiago, and – isn’t that dumb?”

His hand is running through his hair again. By this point, Jake figures he should just give up on neatness altogether and hopes that his _yarmulke_ is still on his head.

“Jake,” says Captain Holt again. “May I tell you something?”

“Shoot,” says Jake, swallowing. His collar feels too tight.

Holt clears his throat. “The second week I was at the Nine-Nine, I dreaded coming in to work every day.”

Jake falters; “Sir?”

“Because of you,” says the Captain bluntly.

“Harsh,” says Jake weakly, because he doesn’t know what else he could possibly say; something in his stomach has twisted and dropped. Whatever it was he was expecting, it –

Well, if he’s honest, the general sentiment hits pretty close to what he’s been running through his head in the past half-hour anyway, so –

“ _But_ ,” Holt continues, before Jake can take his words too much to heart, “that changed.”

“Because you got used to me,” says Jake, shrugging. “I know, sir.”

“Incorrect,” says Holt, expression neutral. “That changed because I realized, slowly, that you were one of the kindest, most sincere men I had ever met in my life.”

Jake stares at him.

“And a good detective,” Holt adds, shrugging. “You were just absolutely abysmal at expressing yourself productively.”

There is suddenly nothing more Jake wants to do than to reach out and touch Holt, to grab onto him and steady himself, but he controls himself and instead clenches his fists at his sides. He turns away.

“But that doesn’t – that doesn’t still mean I know what I’m –”

“Listen to me, Jake,” says Holt. His voice is a touch more insistent, but still that same measured, deep baritone that Jake’s become so familiar with. “The mere fact that you are so worried about this is evidence to how much energy and time you are willing to put into making it work.” He pauses. “Talk to Santiago, if you need to. She’s just down the hall.”

“I – ” Jake takes a deep breath. Something in his chest has loosened. “Thank you,” he says finally. It comes out a little louder than a whisper, this time, so Jake figures he’s making progress. Captain Holt nods, firmly, and clasps his hand over Jake’s shoulder.

And then: “I am … sorry that your father cannot make it.”

This time Jake doesn’t have enough time to process the fact that his arms are moving and stop himself before stepping forward and hugging the older man, tightly, the silky fabric of Holt’s suit jacket soft under Jake’s gripping hands. There is a fraction of a second where Holt stiffens before returning the hug, and Jake takes several deep breaths, his chin resting on Holt’s shoulder, before he lets go, stepping back and tugging down at his own jacket.

Captain Holt smiles at him; it’s soft and unbelievably small, but there’s a lump in Jake’s throat all the same.

“Now,” he says, “I had originally come to say that Detective Boyle is looking for you.”

“Great,” Jake says, only slightly hoarse, feeling a smile curl at his lips. “I’ll just – I’ll only need another second.”

“Indeed,” says Holt dryly, turning to leave. “I would advise putting on some shoes.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Holt pauses at the doorway, and after a fraction of a second nods. He’s still smiling.

Jake feels another part of his chest loosen.

**

(Then again – so is “complicated”.)

“Amy? Amy, you’re not supposed to _be_ here – I mean, of course, you look absolutely lovely as always, but it’s bad luck to –”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Amy stepping forward. “I just need –”

Evidently, there is some sort of anxiety bellied in her expression that Charles picks up on, because he launches into reassurances immediately.

(Well, she will admit that she _is_ anxious, but not for the reasons Charles comes up with.)

“Amy, you don’t have to worry about a _thing_ ,” he tells her, smiling and earnest and so very _Charles_ that there is a small portion of the tension in her midriff that relaxes simply because of that normalcy. “The seats are all put down in the front room and arranged, and there are three bouquets of flowers at the front – colour-coded, of course, because, like you said, any other way would be _heinous_ – and I know you said only two, but better to be safe than sorry, they always say –”

“Charles –”

“– And Ava’s practicing her petal throwing technique with Sharon, and the cake is amazing, oh, Amy, the filling is this _delectable_ coffee cream that –”

“Charles –”

“– And I mean the cake itself looks fine, even though I personally would have never used that brand of fondant –”

“ _Charles –_ ”

“– And – oh my goodness, do you need something to eat? You’re looking like your blood sugar’s down. Dammit, I _knew_ I should have packed you some extra Danishes as well – wait, I can just go grab one of Jake’s, problem solved –”

“ _Charles,_ ” Amy whispers at him insistently. “Do you know where Jake is?”

Charles hesitates in the hallway, his hands clasping at each other nervously. Amy’s got the skirts of her dress gathered up in her arms, tiptoeing across the carpeted floors barefoot, sure that were any of her many sister-in-laws – or, indeed, her mother – to see her, they’d share the same sentiments as Charles. Or, well, maybe not _quite_ as adamantly as Charles; he did, after all, firmly believe that it was bad luck for a man to see his son on his wedding day.

Amy’s not sure how that applies to this situation, but Charles has always been barely two steps behind Gina when it comes to superstitions, so she wouldn’t be surprised if he came up with something just as ridiculous here.

“Amy, it’s terrible luck to see each other before the wedding,” he says, his expression what could only be described as sympathetic. Amy huffs.

“Charles, look, it’s _fine_ , I just –”

“But this could have serious repercussions for the rest of your married _life_ , Amy, you don’t want that kind of –”

“Charles!” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, and when she opens him, she is surprised to see that the expression on his face is soft and understanding rather than concerned or hurt. She bites at her lip and tries not to sound guilty when she speaks next. “I just – really need to talk to Jake.”

Amy is sure he’ll hem and haw his way around another few sentences before telling her where her fiancé is, when the door behind Charles opens and Captain Holt steps out. 

She straightens up immediately and Charles whirls around and delivers something Amy thinks must be a sort of impulsive salute.

She can relate.

“Captain!” he gasps. And, giving himself away immediately in True Charles Fashion: “Did you find him?”

“Yes, he’s right in there,” says Captain Holt in a bemused voice, gesturing back towards the room he just exited. “Perhaps, though, if you were to give him a minute, Detective Boyle.”

It takes Amy half a moment to realize who “he” refers to, half a moment to gather her wits, and another half a moment to push past Charles and towards the room.

“Two minutes!” she says, picking her skirt up from the ground and rushing past Captain Holt. “I need to talk to him!”

“ _Amy –!”_

But the door’s already swung shut behind her, and she’s slowing her pace, awkwardly jog-walking into the small dressing room, trailing tulle behind her. The confused expression on Jake’s face when he turns from the mirror to look at her only flickers for a fraction of a second before his eyebrows go up and it turns to one of surprise.

“Amy?”

He’s dressed in his suit, clearly in the act of fumbling with the flower in his lapel. She can see the curl of his hair under his cap and his sock-clad feet resting on the burgundy carpet and she clasps her hands in front of her impulsively, still clutching onto her skirt train.

A voice in her head shrills at her that she’s going to crumple the fabric, but she can’t bring herself to release her grip.

A beat passes, and then:

“Hi,” they both blurt at the same time, breathless, and Amy feels her eyebrows crawl up her forehead, mirroring his surprise.

“Um,” she says, “um, I just – I was just, _there_ , in the other room, and everyone left to, to give me a minute, and I needed to – to –” She’s distracted by his fidgeting hands, and she can see them automatically come up to grab at the place where his detective badge usually hangs. Against her will, she feels a laugh bubble up in her throat, because just that tiny gesture has suddenly made her shoulders relax. “Oh, my God, you’re nervous too!”

“You’re nervous?” he asks, gasps practically, eyes widening, even as she watches the anxiety bloom across the fair skin of his cheeks. “Oh, God, okay so it wasn’t just me –”

“I was just standing there in the dressing room and I –”

“There’s just a whole bunch of things – in my head and you always –”

“And I needed to –”

“ _Talk to you_ ,” he finishes with her, their words harmonizing and coming out in one garbled rush together.

Amy stares at him. He’s smiling now, eyes crinkling and eyebrows pinched; still unsure of himself, but close enough to laughing out loud that the nerves don’t seem to matter so much anymore. She resists the urge to reach out and grab his hands, instead stepping forward and plucking the flower from his fingers. Focusing her attention on efficiently pinning it into the soft fabric of the jacket, she lets herself speak between the strained laughs escaping from her throat with each breath she exhales.

“It’s not a big deal,” she hears herself say. “I was just, you know, alone – in, in the dressing room? And I just kind of freaked out, over nothing, because – well I just –”

“I know,” says Jake, his smile softening as she brings her fingers down from his lapel, lets them trail against the silk.

Her chest expands and deflates, and somehow she feels taller.

This is _Jake_.

“Okay,” she says, still, because his hands are still fidgeting. She levels her own hands out in front of them, between them. “Okay, how’s – how’s this. We make a deal. If we get through this _whole_ day, we can go up to the hotel after and make tea and watch the not-greatest cop movie of all time.”

She doesn’t expect the bark of laughter, the hands coming up to cover his mouth and stifle his giggles.

“What?”

“Jeez, Santiago, you wanna watch _Die Hard_ on our wedding night?”

“Yes!” she blurts, and feels her eyes widen. “I mean _no_ , I – _ugh_ , you _loser_ , you know what I mean!”

“No, no,” he says, still laughing. “It’s cool, cool cool cool, _Die Hard_ and _then_ sex, that’s the only way to go –”

“Shut up, Peralta!”

“Wait, okay, what if we did it _while_ watching _Die Hard_ –”

“Okay, I’m walking out the door,” says Amy, jabbing him in the stomach. He squeals, but grabs her hand, tugging her forwards and wrapping his arms around her in a hug before she can protest.

“You’re gonna mess up my hair,” she mumbles into his chest.

She can feel his smile against the crown of her veil-less head.

“Sorry.”

“Thanks for talking to me, weirdo.”

“Thanks for coming in to talk to me, loser.”

She pulls away. “I should probably go before Charles has a heart attack. This –” she gestures between them “- Is supposed to be really bad luck. I’m condemning us as we speak.”

He presses a kiss to her cheek, fleeting and enough to churn up flutters in her gut again. “Go out there and kick ass, Ames.”

“See you in a bit?”

“See you in a bit.”

She almost trips on her dress on her way out the door, still focused on the quirk of his smile. But it’s fine, because of all the people in the world, Jake is the least likely to care about something as trivial as tripping over dresses.

**

(Equal parts complicated and simple – a swirl of chaos mixed with a familiarity and natural ease that makes everything seem effortless. In a phrase, their entire relationship described.)

If you asked him later, he’ll tell you that he wasn’t paying attention to half of the ceremony.

Which is, retrospectively, a seemingly _terrible_ thing to admit to with regards to his own wedding – but then, Jake defends himself by claiming that he didn’t really have much of a _choice_ in the matter, anyway.

“Oh! Oh my gosh, there she is!”

She looks like a mermaid.

It’s the first thought that crosses his mind when he hears Charles’s exclamation and turns – and, immediately after, he’s wondering how he didn’t notice this before, in the dressing room. How he failed to appreciate the way the soft fabric of her wedding gown shimmers with the barest hints of turquoise as she walks towards him, how she’s chosen not to wear a veil and her soft, dark hair curls elegantly around her shoulders. It was different, then, he supposes, in the cramped side room – they were _Jake and Amy,_ nervous and stumbling and partners-for-the-past-ten-years, poking each other and joking about cop movies and couch sex. There’s something about this moment, right now, that makes him _Jake_ and her _Amy_ , the woman walking down the aisle wearing a dress with a delicate scoop at her neckline, her sweetheart-cut bodice beaded so lightly it’s nearly invisible. Something about the way her shy smile lights up her dark eyes, the slight stumble of her heel-clad feet as she passes the foldable chairs and the spot of colour flushing her caramel cheeks – that makes it _different_.

And it’s doing things to his insides, this sudden realization of _I’m marrying Amy Santiago_ , and it’s entirely unexpected and totally anticipated at the same time, and he is certain of two things:

He is, unequivocally, the happiest he has ever been in his life.

He is, also, a walking, talking cliché; evidenced by the sudden lack of breath in his lungs and the rapid beating of his heart.

(Complimented by the mug sitting proudly in his cupboard, the words _Number 1 Princess_ in curly script on the front, a joke gift from Rosa some years back. Jake Peralta is nothing if not the world’s biggest closet romantic, and he wears that title like a badge of honour.)

But he figures that, all things considered, his wedding day is an okay time for him to bust out the cliché loser act.

He hears Captain Holt behind them, talking. The words register, they _do_ , Jake’s sure they’re very meaningful and eloquent and heartfelt and he really _does_ hear them because if he didn’t he’d have surely stumbled through the motions, through all the official rituals and ceremony that are mandatory in the event of an interfaith, cross-cultural wedding like this. Which makes it sound complicated and fancy but really, it’s just a sprawl of loved ones and cherished traditions and the _point_ is, if Jake hadn’t been listening, there wouldn’t be the sudden overwhelming lump in his throat. There wouldn’t the huge smile tugging at his lips, making his cheeks ache in a way that makes him feel like _this_ time, his face is definitely going to split in half.

Captain Holt’s words come to a close, and in his periphery he catches Charles and Terry and Sharon and his Mom and Amy’s Dad (all crying) and Rosa and Pilar (smiling hugely) and Scully and Hitchcock, and _so many_ other people, sitting there and watching the most important moment of Jake’s life.

It’s unreal.

He feels Amy squeeze at his hands; the rings they’ve just exchanged press against each other, the cool metal grounding Jake and causing his eyes to flicker down to their intertwined fingers – the silver of his new wedding band contrasting against the tarnished plastic of the one-dollar engagement ring Amy gave him; the curl of Amy’s slim fingers, rough and gun-calloused as his own, fitting into his larger hands.

He looks up, and Captain Holt is smiling at them; his voice is soft, quiet, when he speaks next: his words only for Jake and Amy, amazing detectives-slash-geniuses, occasional banes of his existence, and, now, finally – _married_.

“I am … so very proud. Of both of you.”

Amy eyes are shining with unshed tears of her own, and Jake swallows against the pressure in his throat again, squeezes her hands back. When she leans forward and kisses him, his hands sweep up to her face of their own accord, and she anchors him again – like she _always_ does – holds him there in place on Earth and doesn’t let his soul lift up off the ground with the sheer amount of emotion he’s feeling.

She pulls away, face inches from his, and dimly he registers that everyone is clapping and someone is throwing flowers or something, but it’s at that second that Amy says, “I’m so _happy_ right now,” gasping and whispered like it wasn’t exactly supposed to escape her lips, and he doesn’t think twice about what comes out of his mouth next, rushed into her ear.

“ _I’m so happy right now_ , title of our sex tape?”

Amy’s laugh is loud and bright and sudden, flying high above the background sounds of celebration, and when she pulls him in for a hug, she doesn’t stop, her shoulders shaking with mirth and delight under his arms. Jake squeezes his eyes shut against the moisture in his eyes and presses his cheek to the crown of her head, his heart full.

**

(And then: a Coda, part the first.)

“You – me – s-sir?”

“I asked you if you would like to dance, Detective Santiago,” he says with a smile in his voice, watching her spend a second too long staring at him in surprise.

He asks Amy to dance. First, because it seems the appropriate thing to do at her wedding, as her captain and friend; and, second, simply because he feels like it.

At that moment in time, she’s sitting against the table with the fluffy tulle of her dress bunched up around her chair haphazardly, the faint blueish sheen that shimmered on the white fabric that morning invisible in the darker lighting of the reception hall. She’s spent the whole rest of the day breezing through things and panicking only _very_ mildly, calmer than he’s ever seen her, amazingly in control and positively beaming. It’s similar to the control she has when she’s solving a case; the unwavering confidence that comes from how completely absorbed and engaged she is in the puzzle. He knows – has known for a long time – that, like Jake, Amy loves her work in part because of the thrill of putting together the pieces of the mystery.

She gets absorbed in it and forgets her doubts because she loves it so much, because it makes her _happy_. He thinks, not without some measure of approval, that that same happiness is demanding her attention today.

Raymond Holt is not a particularly sentimental man, but he does observe that the brilliance of her smile perfectly complements that of Jake’s.

He is very proud of her.

He doesn’t say this out loud, exactly, not in so many words and certainly not outside of the speech he gave at the ceremony (officiating weddings, it seems, becomes easier the more you do it) but he does smile to himself when he asks Detective Santiago to dance and the first thing she does is trip over her own feet; an impressive feat, considering she’s sitting down.

She’s not a terrible dancer, exactly – rather, she lets herself get worked up and nervous about her technique, overthinks each step she takes. But Raymond surmises that it’s only fair that she be slightly flustered, having never danced with _him,_ her commanding officer, before: he’s certainly not of her many brothers, most of whom allegedly possessing her own lack of dancing finesse; nor is he Charles, who is a good inch shorter than her when she’s wearing heels; and, most importantly, he’s not her new husband, who is currently dancing surprisingly gracefully with one of his newly-acquired nieces, letting the little girl stand on his feet, lopsided _yarmulke_ still atop his head. Jake, Raymond knows, would probably tease her mercilessly about the fact that she steps on both of his feet at once while simultaneously making sure that she knows it doesn’t matter at all.

They are stumbling slowly on the dance floor and Amy is looking more and more pained every time she steps on his feet, and so when Raymond has to steady her when she steps awkwardly and falls against his chest, he decides to speak.

“I am very happy for you, Detective Santiago. I am sure you’re aware of this.”

Amy stumbles upright, her flushed cheeks – bright and coloured all day long, but darkening just a little more – practically glowing, and he can see the nervous smile blossoming on her face and the tension easing out of her shoulders, slightly.

“We’re very honoured to have you here, sir,” she says, gushing only a very little bit. He does not question her sincerity for a moment. Then, smiling, he says,

“I don’t believe I’d be a very good mentor to you if I had not come, Amy.”

He can see the way her eyes widen and the immediate perk of her shoulders and does not wince when she steps on his foot again, heedless, but rather repositions his hand on his shoulder ever so slightly.

“Here,” he says, gently. “Perhaps if I were to set a slower pace?”

“Thank you,” gasps Amy, after a moment of somewhat more synchronized swaying. She is looking as though she can’t actually believe what he just said, and he thinks briefly that he still has work to do if after all this time she does not consider herself good enough for his mentorship.

Later, he delivers her back to her table and watches as she slides into her seat next to a flushed Jake and immediately leans over to whisper something in his ear, her hands practically vibrating with excitement in her lap. Raymond hides his smile and says,

“Thank you for the enjoyable dance, Detective.”

Her eyes are warm and full of love. “You’re welcome, sir.”

(He is, indeed, incredibly proud. Of both of them.)

**

(And then: a Coda, part the second.)

They flop back onto the hotel mattress once they’ve changed out of their fancy clothes, Amy in a bathrobe and Jake in an old white tee and boxers.

Thinking back on the day, Amy decides that there is nothing she won’t remember with fondness. There was an overwhelming sprawl of people, and she’s almost certain Rosa hooked up with one of her cousins, and she remembers Terry dancing with Cagney perched on his shoulders and Lacey held in his arms, remembers the _ridiculous_ speeches Charles and Gina gave, riddled with farm-related jokes and embarrassing stories that made her get emotional for what felt like the billionth time that day. She thinks of the kiss Kylie pressed to her cheek before the ceremony and the song Luis sang at the reception, his guitar polished and cleaned specifically for the occasion, and she thinks of the massive, minute-long bear hug that Karen Peralta had given her, before she and Jake made their escape, the older woman’s brown eyes as warm and loving as her son’s.

Even her _very_ Roman Catholic Tia Maria had seemed content with the proceedings, and Amy can’t help but smile up at the ceiling of their hotel room, her limbs still buzzing with energy.

Their feet hang off the edge of the bed and their fingers are interlocked between them, the feeling of Jake’s rings already familiar against her hand, even as the mattress dips and pushes them back up again, springy.

There’s a moment of silence.

Amy turns to look at Jake, her dark hair splayed against the fancy hotel bedding. He’s close enough that she can smell the lingering traces of the aftershave he put on that morning, a hint of the reception cake and something that must be a medley of the perfumes that clung to him after hugging so many different people in the span of twelve hours. He’s grinning at her, his brown eyes alight.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Detective Peralta?”

(She feels her stomach flutter and her lips part in a grin at his choice of name.)

“What are you thinking, Detective Santiago?”

He looks at her – no more than just a moment, and his smile softens at the edges and his eyes are warm and bright – and he squeezes her hand.

“This mattress is really nice.”

“ _Super_ bouncy,” Amy agrees.

“Oh, yeah,” says Jake. “The best.”

They’ve got a duffle full of clothes for the two of them and their hotel room is really nice, the view from the balcony high up enough that they can see out into the bay, over the skyscrapers. There’s room service and _everything_ , and fancy scented towels in the bathroom – even a lounge on the other end with a couch and TV, which she’s _sure_ Jake noticed and wonders at the fact that he hasn’t teased her about it yet – and the night is early and Amy feels her heart speed up at the thought that they’ve just _gotten married_.

Several beats pass, just looking at each other. Amy counts them using her heartbeat, and the pulse in Jake’s wrist. They’re almost in synch – not quite, but _almost_.

They make up for that the next moment, when they say at the same time, without missing a beat:

“ _Mattress trampoline!_ ”

Married life, Amy thinks, is absolutely _exhilarating._

**Author's Note:**

> a couple things:
> 
> \- I really hope that when they do get married on the show, they take into account cultural and religious backgrounds? I think it'd be great if they had like a sort of interfaith wedding; and Captain Holt could still officiate it, too
> 
> \- I tried to keep the continuity of Amy's family members' names, but Luis especially - u should know that I imagine Luis Santiago in my head as Lin Manuel Miranda. You should too, it makes life exponentially Better
> 
> \- I firmly believe Jake is excellent at doing makeup and painting nails. He grew up with Gina Linetti as a sort-of-sister and the main influences in his life were his Mom, Grandmother, and probably Gina's Mom Darlene. Like. Yo.
> 
> \- Jake being a huge LOTR nerd is confirmed by canon #godbless
> 
> \- honestly, one day these two are ACTUALLY going to get married and I'm going to cry
> 
> \- well, whaddaya know, I wrote a not-sad fic and I _still_ managed to make poor Jacob cry. pls forgive me, kiddo
> 
> \- thanks for reading!!!


End file.
